Saison d'Être
by Cedar
Summary: Eight years after he leaves Hogwarts, Harry is living in New York, having abandoned the wizarding world. When he is found by Draco Malfoy, he knows he's encountered the one person who can't let him forget who he is.
1. Summer

**Disclaimer**: All the characters and magic in this work belong to J.K. Rowling and the large corporations with which she is associated. I am receiving no money for this fic.   


**Author's note**: This fic was written as a birthday gift for the beautiful and talented Mawaridi. For her, I will write H/D. The title is a play on the French phrase _raison d'être_, literally "a reason to be," interpreted as one's reason for existence or living. Thanks to Manubai for help with the translation. More thanks go to Malfoi, Amelia Weasley, and Gypsy Silverleaf. The deli on 57th Street is real, but Timonti's is not.  


**I. Summer**

  


Harry Potter wasn't really supposed to be here, in a deli in midtown Manhattan, but this Sunday found him wide awake at ten in the morning, staring at a brunch of eggs, toast, coffee, and hash browns. He sat in a booth in the corner of the second floor, watching the other diners. Some still showed signs of a Saturday night spent too late in clubs filled with cheap cigarette smoke and cheaper women dispensing liquor shots in test tubes. He opened his Sunday Times, though he didn't bother to read just yet. A girl was watching him from a nearby table, and she looked down shyly as he turned his head to her. A sketchpad took up a sizeable portion of her table, which was littered with colored pencils.   


_Pretty girl_, he thought. She was tall, with a wide smile and strong cheekbones, wearing bright red lipstick and some kind of gold necklace with a rectangular pendant. Her hand moved over the paper, and he smiled to himself as he watched her steal glances at him. Look up. Sketch. Look up. Sketch. Who was he to interrupt anyone's artistic process?   


The air conditioning was up just a little too high, as all air conditioners were in New York this time of year. He had to admit that this was one thing he loved about the Muggle world. Electricity simply beat the hell out of candles and fires; there was no other way to put it. He let the cold air blow over his arms, flapping one corner of his newspaper. Eat, read, turn the page. Ignoring the rest of the dining room, he caught up with world events, trying to decide if he wanted to go to a museum today or just walk around, reveling in the sunlight. Or the library. Maybe he'd go to the library.   


"Care for anything else, sir?"   


The waiter dragged Harry kicking and screaming out of his Times reverie, standing at the edge of the table looking not quite eager enough to warrant the disturbance he'd made.   


"Oh! Um, just more coffee, if you please. Thank you." The waiter left, returning with a half-full pot, and Harry went back to his newspaper.   


The next time he looked up, the artist girl had left, and two people were seated at her table. He could see the woman, attractive in a fabricated sort of way, but the man had his back turned to Harry's table. From his corner, Harry could see that the man was casually yet expensively dressed in chinos and a shirt ironed to within three degrees of burning the fibers. He was blond, and though his hand gestures seemed casual, he sat ramrod-straight at the edge of his chair, like a musician ready to give a concert. Straining to hear above the diners two tables to his right, Harry caught a lilt in the man's voice, definitely British, though he couldn't make out the words or pinpoint the origin of the accent.   


When his meal was done and the check paid, Harry rose from the table, packing up his Times and his Visor. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Yes. He was in a mood to look at the Arms and Armor exhibit, touristy though it was. As he headed for the stairs, the blond man stood from his table, placing his napkin on the chair and following Harry's path. They walked down the stairs, the man a few steps behind Harry, when he heard the man miss a stair, stumble, and catch himself inches from Harry's legs. Turning in the direction of the sound, Harry saw the man's face. Skin that hadn't seen any appreciable amount of sun in years, pointed chin, gray eyes...and that British accent...   


Harry turned and ran down the rest of the stairs and out of the deli, pausing on Fifty-seventh Street to catch his breath. No. How the hell? Was that really? He looked through the plate glass window of the restaurant. What was he doing in New York? They hadn't talked since...since their last day at Hogwarts. When was that? Time lost meaning, the past coming back vividly in colors too bright and sounds too loud. Harry lived as a Muggle now, away from the world that expected everything he could barely give and more. Sure, he kept his wand, and did a few spells around the house, but after the final battle with Voldemort, he had packed what little he owned, converted his inheritance to Muggle money, and moved across the ocean, not looking back until now.   


Draco Malfoy stepped through the heavy door, fixing his gaze on Harry, who stood his ground under the restaurant's awning. Without a word, Malfoy walked over to Harry and stood only inches away. He brushed Harry's hair back from his forehead, holding it out of place as both of them breathed deeply, each hoping the other would break first.   


"So it is you."   


"How very observant. What are you doing here?"   


"I could ask you the same thing."   


There was no humor in Harry's voice, only the acid burn of years of animosity. He shook his head. "Does it really matter?"   


"Fuck yes, it matters! You're the one that packed up and left! You...God, Potter. Haven't you thought about anything since you came here?"   


"I've tried not to."   


"You wouldn't. You'd leave the rest of us behind to pick up the pieces of a goddamn war and not give a shit, wouldn't you? Your best friends fought in that war, remember?"   


"Of course I remember, Malfoy. My best friend...Hermione died." Harry's voice hardened, remembering the circumstances. "She died saving your sorry ass."   


"And I'm sorry it had to turn out that way." As though he calculated Harry's next question, Malfoy added, "But I don't wish it had been me instead. I'm not so stupid to believe that bravery is more important than being alive."   


"That doesn't surprise me in the least. Always thinking of yourself first," Harry retorted.   


"Stop it, Potter. There's nothing we can do about it now. We have to move on."   


"Maybe you can. An entire wizarding population wasn't counting on you to save them."   


"And guess what? They're not counting on you anymore, either. They've gone on without you, if you can believe for a second that the wizarding world can get by without Saint Harry Potter." The edge in Malfoy's voice felt like it was cutting Harry across the base of his brain, simple words chosen to mark and hurt, inflict the most damage with the smallest amount of effort.   


Harry turned away. He had better ways to spend his Sunday than arguing with the person he'd hated more than anyone for seven straight years of his life. Malfoy's reflexes were fast, though, and he grabbed Harry's upper arm.   


"Potter, you are not walking away from me."   


"Why not? It's not like I've got anything to say to you."   


"This isn't about me."   


Harry's lips wouldn't form the words, and Malfoy held tight. He didn't let go of Harry's arm, but turned Harry to face him. "That's right. There's no walking away anymore. Go ahead and live as a Muggle, in your overpriced three-hundred-square-foot flat in Tribeca with your radio and your telephone and this disgusting dirty subway system, but you don't get to forget who you are."   


"What about you?"   


"You'll learn that later. Maybe."   


Pulling Harry toward him, Malfoy placed his other hand on Harry's waist and kissed his cheek, a kiss that held the weight of remembrance and the promise that this would not be the last time they met.   



	2. Autumn

**II. Autumn**

  


_One, two, three, four, inhale, one, two, three, four, exhale_. Six-thirty on an October Saturday morning, Harry's feet pounded the pavement, concentrating on the rhythm. He hated running outside during the week, too many people and dogs to dodge, but he relished his weekend run, shared with the bright leaves and city residents in rumpled clothes and makeup in all the wrong places. Five blocks from his apartment, he had the sense that he was being followed, and strayed from his usual route.   


Four blocks later, Malfoy caught up to him, matching his pace.   


"Go away."   


"No."   


Harry had seen Malfoy a few times over the summer, for three agonizingly long dinners where they argued about nothing and ordered martini after martini. It was nights like those, nights that left him hung over and late for work the next day, that made him wonder what it was that prevented him from meeting a nice Muggle girl who believed wizards were for fantasy novels and wanted nothing more out of life than a few kids, a minivan, and a house in some place like Parsippany, New Jersey. When he started his morning like that, he was screwed for the rest of the day, and nothing Starbucks concocted could remedy it. After every dinner, he had more questions, about what Malfoy had been up to since the end of the war, and what had happened to his family. Harry knew a few things, that Snape and Lupin had survived, but Sirius hadn't, taking a Killing Curse that was meant for a former classmate...that Hufflepuff boy from second year, what was his name...Finch somethingorother. Finch-Fletchley. That was it. Justin Finch-Fletchley. Malfoy answered his questions in a way that only left him wondering more. Of course, it was pulling teeth to get Malfoy to tell him anything at all. They both knew without saying that the information had a price, but neither would move on the issue.   


"Are you ever going to leave me alone?"   


"What...three or four dinners...is stalking? I don't think so." Malfoy kept up as Harry increased his speed, though he talked a lot less, which was fine with Harry. For blocks they ran, Malfoy trailing slightly but not giving up, silent, until Harry knew it was time to turn back.   


"Don't...follow...me home."   


Malfoy said nothing, and Harry knew that he might as well have given an order to keep traffic lights from changing. When the two of them reached Harry's apartment building, he paused in front of the steps.   


"Goodbye, Malfoy."   


"I'm not leaving."   


"Fine. Fine. Come in. Just don't get your smelly self near my bed."   


"You want me near your bed?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Harry sighed. Every other word out of Malfoy's mouth was a double entendre.   


"Not funny."   


Malfoy followed him upstairs. Three keys went into three separate locks, and Malfoy was obviously impatient.   


"You couldn't just use your wand?"   


"You couldn't just use your brain?" Irritated, Harry opened the door, checked his machine for messages, and threw his keys down on the table.   


Harry headed for the shower, and Malfoy started digging around in the kitchen cabinets.   


"You really are a New Yorker, aren't you?"   


"Why do you say that?"   


"All you have in here is a can of tuna fish, some Chinese leftovers, and a carton of orange juice that...You have a can of tuna fish and some Chinese leftovers."   


"If you don't like it, go out and get something." Harry stepped into the shower, reveling in knowing that the only sound he would hear for the next ten minutes would be the rush of hot water. He stayed under the shower until he could barely breathe, and reluctantly turned off the taps and reached for a towel. As he wrapped the towel around his waist, the door opened.   


"Malfoy!"   


"You don't have a bathtub?"   


"In this city, you're lucky if you get a toilet! Get the hell out so I can finish!"   


"You got something I've never seen before?"   


"Get out!" Harry pushed Malfoy out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and locking it. He shaved, brushed his teeth again, and opened the door, still wearing the towel.   


"You know, Potter, you've filled out since Hogwarts."   


"I've what?"   


Malfoy was standing close. Too close. "You're not, you know, as scrawny as you used to be."   


"Um...thanks, I think. Malfoy, you're..."   


"Yes?"   


"You're in my way."   


"Am I?" His voice was taunting, and he stepped towards Harry. "I don't see you going anywhere."   


Harry's heart was pounding, and his mouth went dry. This was not supposed to happen, this tension and sudden want. He didn't know how to feel anything towards Malfoy except the cement mixer shot of hatred and annoyance, and possibly the strong need to hex him every time he spoke. This was the strangest he'd felt since stepping off the plane at JFK, and somehow, if possible, he felt even more lost.   


"I'm...I'm going," Harry stated with false assurance. Malfoy grinned, and then was closer, and then Malfoy's mouth was on his, tasting of salt and the cool, near-weightless morning air.   


"Are you sure?" Malfoy held him by the waist, their foreheads touching   


"I don't understand why--" He was cut off by another kiss, this one deeper, more controlling.   


"Now is not the time to try to understand."   


Malfoy's fingertips trailed over Harry's arms, and he shuddered, and he had so many thoughts racing in his head that he had none at all. He couldn't bring himself to look into Malfoy's eyes, but he reached forward, his lips meeting Malfoy's in a connection to the past he wasn't sure he wanted but knew he didn't want to be without. This wouldn't start anything remotely like a normal relationship, nothing that would give Harry the secure, mundane life he'd thirsted after for years, but maybe it was something he needed. Maybe. There was no hiding now, no lies, no burying his sorrow in work and coffee and John Grisham novels. He was standing in front of the one person who knew who he was and would be damned to let him forget it. But…time. It was going to take time.   


Harry pulled his arms back, lacing his fingers between Malfoy's.   


"No, it isn't."   



	3. Winter

**III. Winter**

  


Harry understood in February. The city was wrapped in that complacent and apathetic time of year, with day after short day of gray skies and two inches of snow that melted as soon as it hit roads hot with the motion of too many people in too small a space. He still remembered that day, just after Valentine's Day, when his coworkers were finally over the panic of dates and roses and lingerie and jewelry. That cute blonde from Research and Development had asked him to dinner, promising it would be nothing more than friendship, but he'd declined. He just wanted to stay home, read, and not think about the strange turn his life had taken over the past few months.   


Harry had seen Malfoy more frequently that winter. Sometimes they had dinner; sometimes he let Malfoy take him to polyamorous clubs with music so loud it was felt rather than heard, where no one cared when they lost themselves in the pixilated sweat and pulsating lights. Malfoy licked salt off Harry's neck for a tequila shot and Harry soon accepted Malfoy's dare to reciprocate, reigniting their history of competition. They kissed on the dance floor, Harry directing the night, choosing when and where to accept Malfoy's advancements. Malfoy's hands slid under Harry's shirt, hips grinding, tongues meeting before their lips did, men and women and those in between watching them blend light and dark, enmity and lust, past, present, and future. Harry allowed Malfoy to come back to his apartment afterward, but never to stay, never to sleep. Distrust wasn't unearned that easily.   


Timonti's was packed, one of those tiny underground restaurants with no menu and alfredo sauce that melted on your tongue. Harry swirled the wine in his glass, not really wanting to look at Malfoy, who seemed disinterested in whether Harry talked to him or not. For a while they sat in silence, each shrouded in thoughts of the other. This was by far the worst dinner of them all, worse than the ones where Harry pressed to learn what Malfoy was doing in New York, and how he'd found him, and what had happened to Malfoy's family after the war. He never spoke of Lucius or Narcissa, no matter how many cagey ways Harry found to phrase the question. Twirling his fork in his linguini, Harry had to ask.   


"Malfoy, why did you come to New York?"   


"I had to."   


"You mean like on business?"   


Malfoy smiled. "Well, you're a little more than business."   


"You came...you came to find me? How did you know? I mean, how could you know I was here and not someplace like Stockholm or Chicago or Bombay?"   


Rolling his eyes in disgust, Malfoy sneered at him. "Magic, Potter, magic. Have you completely lost who you are? Just because you run away doesn't mean the world stops existing. And you have the nerve to call me self-centered."   


"Sorry, I just...when you live without magic for a while, you adapt, you know? You just don't think about that sort of thing."   


"You make yourself not think about that sort of thing because you're afraid."   


"I am not afraid."   


"Bullshit. If you weren't afraid, you'd still be in Britain, helping the rest of the wizarding world try to put itself back together. You'd have the life you're supposed to have and maybe visit your godfather's grave every now and again like a normal human being."   


"How did you know about Sirius?"   


"By the end, no one had any secrets from anyone. You spend weeks living in tunnels, you bond to the few people you can trust."   


"People trusted you?"   


"They had to."   


"Were you...you didn't spy for anyone, did you?"   


"How thick are you? Of course I did. I was the perfect spy, a Malfoy, an initiated Death Eater--"   


"Do you regret doing that? Taking the Mark, I mean?"   


"No. It's what I was raised to do. It was expected of me, and I went willingly."   


This was too much. "I don't get it."   


A shrug. "So what else is new? There aren't rules in war, Potter. I did what I thought was right."   


"Draco Malfoy has a sense of right and wrong?"   


"Shut up. Don't talk about what you don't know. You weren't there, and you don't get to open that fat mouth of yours." Malfoy's words were sharp, but the look in his eyes was distant. Harry caught Malfoy's clandestine expression.   


"So fill me in on what you're not telling me."   


Malfoy's knife stopped in mid-slice, and his knuckles went white around the stainless steel handle. "Why do you care so much now? Why didn't you care eight years ago?"   


"Because...maybe I want to try to make an amend or two," Harry said softly, "and I guess this is as good a place to start as any. But you know I can't help you unless you tell me what happened, tell me the whole story." He paused, gathering courage for the question. "Were you the one that killed Sirius?"   


"Wrong Malfoy."   


"What?"   


"They were going to kill Snape. Lupin too, and at least one of your precious Weasleys. My father was becoming too powerful, and he had the whole Ministry under his thumb. I didn't like doing it, but I didn't really have a choice."   


Harry drew air for his next question, but he was interrupted.   


"I killed them." Malfoy reached for his water glass, taking a sip just large enough to allow his voice to continue to work. "I had to."   


"Who?"   


"Them. My...my parents."   


"You what?"   


"Are you deaf in addition to being an idiot, Potter? I. Killed. Them. It was either them or me."   


"You say that like you're picking out a pair of shoes."   


"Sod off."   


"Sorry. But what does this have to do with me? Why couldn't you just leave me alone, let me live out my life here? And why…why did you kiss me that first time, and how did you know?"   


"You ask too many questions."   


"You...you didn't want to live without me around, did you?"   


"Flatter yourself much?"   


"Oh, please. This from the one who harassed me for years just because I turned him down after he insulted my best friend."   


"Except now," Malfoy laid down his knife, trapping Harry's ankle between his legs under the table, "there's a lot more at stake than friendship."   



	4. Spring

**IV. Spring**

  


Harry was almost sad to see winter come to an end, an end to that marrow-deep heat that Malfoy brought him in the long icy nights. Not that Malfoy wasn't warm all the time, not that Harry wasn't still thrilled by every touch, but there was something about his presence on a cold night that made Harry feel like life might just be teetering on bearable. He let Malfoy take him to the places he feared, moving forward, past the years of hatred to one of something that might have resembled understanding.   


Temperatures rose and the rains came, melting the dirty snow that had piled beside the sidewalks all winter. Wedding invitations turned up in his mailbox, and he was offered many a spot at a dinner party or barbecue, and he went, still holding tight to what he felt was his final need, to be anyone but Harry Potter, savior of a world that he had later allowed to collapse.   


"You're thinking about going back, aren't you?"   


"Pardon?" Harry stopped swirling the olive in his martini glass and looked up to see Malfoy facing him from the next barstool.   


"That look, Potter, like you're on some other planet. You're thinking about going back and trying to fix what you can."   


"It's been too long, though, hasn't it?"   


"No. It will never have been too long."   


"But eight...almost nine years now. I mean, aren't we in a totally different place?"   


"I am. You're not. You're still in the same place you were when you got here. You're still scarred. You're still trying to fill in the empty places in your life by working too hard and drinking too many of those goddamn martinis. You need to go back, and you need to go sooner rather than later."   


"I can't. It wouldn't make a difference. It's not going to change things, change that Sirius...that Sirius is dead, and Hermione."   


"That still hurts, doesn't it?"   


Harry nearly choked on his drink. "What did you say?"   


"I asked you if it still hurts."   


"Thought so. Sorry. I didn't ever expect to hear anything resembling anything other than snobbery out of you."   


"So I'm not allowed to change?"   


"Well, I do kind of like having the constant in my life," replied Harry, only half in jest.   


Malfoy shook his head. "You don't have the copyright on Going Through Hell, Potter. Hate to break it to you. Nothing's the same as you remember. You're going to spend the rest of your life in this wretched cycle of number-crunching and the "I really like you, but I think it would be better if we were just friends" speech if you don't get off your arse and do something about it."   


"Thanks so much for the pep talk, Counselor Troi."   


"Who?"   


"Never mind." Harry turned back to his drink, his thoughts in rhythm with the motion of the plastic toothpick and olives circling the sides of his glass. Sirius. Hermione. Voldemort. Ron. Ron. He hadn't thought of Ron in much too long. Would Ron still welcome him? The rest of the Weasleys, Arthur Molly Bill Charlie Percy…Percy dead, gone, joined the Death Eaters, killed by Aurors…Fred George Ginny. His friends, the friends that became family, and he could re-enter the wizarding world, where he was supposed to be. Would they forgive him for leaving? Would it matter? He wasn't doing this for anyone else. He would go to at least try to set things right, to the way they were supposed to be. Malfoy was right. Bastard. New York was nothing but an escape for him. It didn't solve anything, didn't change his past, or the people he'd betrayed, or that he was born magical. Born to parents who would never have run off to live in America when things went wrong. They were better than that, and he had to be, too.   


Malfoy leaned over, one hand on Harry's thigh. Harry looked around nervously for people he knew from work, people who would ask questions as to who Malfoy was and what Harry was doing with him. Malfoy's voice vibrated low in his ear, and he pulled his shoulders in at the sensation.   


"We need to stop arguing, and you need to let me kiss you."   


"What? Here?"   


"Yes."   


Harry looked up, his hand still. If he let Malfoy kiss him here, someplace normal, when they weren't hidden under darkness and strobe lights in a place designed to feed the libido, it would mean he'd made his decision. He wet his lips, willing himself to look into Malfoy's face.   


"Let me kiss you, and come back to Britain with me. You know you need it."   


"The kiss or the trip?"   


"Both." Malfoy was so close Harry could smell the Long Island Iced Tea on his breath. He had a sudden flash, a need to taste the drink from Malfoy's lips, and in the instant he did, he knew he had accepted who he was, that it was time to leave New York, time to stop hiding, time to go back and finish what he started. Ignoring where they were, he advanced, taking one of Malfoy's hands, sliding the other to the back of Malfoy's head where the cool hair slipped between his fingers.   


Malfoy broke the kiss first. "Potter, people are starting to stare."   


"I don't care." Harry reached toward Malfoy, who stopped him.   


"Yes you do. We're in a restaurant, not a club where we can barely be seen, not that anyone there cares anyway. Finish your drink, and we'll go."   


"I don't want to finish my drink." He was intoxicated on the want, hungry for Malfoy's taste of triple sec and Coke, fighting the primal instinct to undo Malfoy's belt and fuck him right there on top of the bar.   


"Then we're going." Malfoy stood, dragging Harry out of the restaurant by his wrist and into the street, cold and wet in the drizzling indecisive April. He didn't let go, threatening to break the small bones with the tenacity of his grip.   


"You're hurting me."   


"Stop being such a twit." Malfoy extended his other hand, waiting.   


"You have to face uptown if you want a cab."   


"Potter, I can get us a goddamn cab. I'm not that ignorant." One pulled up almost immediately, and Harry thought he heard Malfoy mutter something about no one telling New York cabdrivers that in America you were supposed to drive on the left side of the road. He gave the driver Harry's address, and Harry curled on his side and laid his head in Malfoy's lap.   


"Potter, sit up. You're not that drunk."   


"You frien' betta not be sick in my cah!"   


Emphasizing his polished British accent to the point of seduction, Malfoy drawled, "Don't worry, sir. He's just--"   


"You frien' betta not fucking throw up. I'll strangle the sonamabitch. You know how long it takes to get that stench out?"   


"Sir, I assure you that--"   


"One fucking month, that's what. He pukes and I'll strangle ya both. I ain't drivin' around dis city with that fucking smell in my cab."   


Malfoy kept silent the rest of the ride, watching the rushed storefronts and hurried people as he let one hand slip through Harry's hair and over his stubbled cheek. When they reached Harry's building, he coaxed him out of the cab, paying the driver and standing Harry upright in the glare of the streetlight.   


"Come on, Potter. We're going upstairs."   


"We?" Harry's head felt clearer after the nap and the fresh air.   


"Yes, we. And then _we_ are going to get you out of this city and back where you're supposed to be."   


"Which is where, again?"   


Malfoy took Harry's head in his hands, kissing him in the middle of the sidewalk as dogs the size of cats attached to ancient owners the size of children walked around them. "You don't need me to tell you."   


Harry smiled his first real smile in years, and they lingered in the threatening mist, laughing quietly between teasing kisses, not caring so much anymore who saw them. They curled their fingertips into each other's palms, glancing at the people walking down the street. Malfoy pulled Harry to him, brushing his cheek against Harry's.   


"Let's go in before it starts to pour."   


Harry let Malfoy lead him up the stairs, kissing on the landings between flights. With a glance down the empty hall, Malfoy opened the locks on Harry's door with a tap of his wand.   


"Remember that, Potter?" There was still some sarcastic Malfoy in his voice, which Harry doubted would ever go away.   


"Vaguely. I think you'll have to spend more time here, making sure I haven't forgotten too much."   


"Only if you'll buy some groceries every now and again like a normal person."   


Harry's shirt was gone before they made it to the bed, Malfoy swiftly and almost too surely slipping buttons through their holes. Malfoy pushed Harry's hands away, stripping Harry naked before he so much as made a motion to loosen his own tie.   


"Not fair," came Harry's mild protest.   


"Life's not fair. Deal with it." Malfoy knelt over Harry, kissing down his chin to his collarbone to his stomach, holding Harry's wrists at his sides. Harry tilted his head back into the feather pillows, allowing Malfoy guide him, to touch him in all the places that made him forget his shame and mistakes of the past.   


It was the first time trust between them became something done and said rather than untold and expressed only in the small moans they made as they danced under smoke and colored lights or tangled themselves in Harry's sheets. That night, Malfoy…Draco…slept curled around Harry, breathing in the warmth that radiated from the back of Harry's neck. They existed for the small movements, for the promise of what would come, for the way each completed the other's needs.   


So began their era of reparation, their season to be.  


~~~~~~~  
end


End file.
